


Requisitions

by entanglednow



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-18
Updated: 2011-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:32:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has no idea what McCoy had found to write on him with, damp, faintly cold, possibly permanent?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Requisitions

  
Kirk has no idea what McCoy had found to write on him with, damp, faintly cold, possibly permanent? A UV marker maybe? The curves and lines invisible to the eye. He should probably be more worried about what exactly is now scrawled across the middle of his back.

The doctor's heavier than he looks, all muscle and vitriol, thighs hot where they lay against his skin. There's a glass, carefully balanced on Kirk's shoulder blade, a trickle of liquid is working its way down his back, cooler than the skin. Winding a path through whatever the man's writing. Occasionally the glass will lift, come back lighter, or heavier, bottom ringed with liquid.

"In my official capacity, as Chief Medical Officer, I'm telling you to stop fidgeting," McCoy says firmly, then digs his knee into the soft skin at Kirk's waist, hard enough for his ribs to feel it.

"I think this would be frowned upon - in an official capacity." Kirk let's strong fingers push into his hair and turn his head on the pillow. Not trying to shut him up - Kirk thinks maybe McCoy does it just because he can.

"So, I'm about to bring shame on the medical profession. Which is your fault, naturally." Alcohol turns McCoy's voice into a low, smokey purr, dragged up out of his throat. It's the perfect voice for insults and curses and dark, explicit promises.

Kirk would try and look over his shoulder, but the glass and the expensive scotch will end up in the sheets. He's pretty sure McCoy's still too sober to forgive him for that.

"Your pathological inability to do what you're told, coupled with your recklessness - how the universe saw fit to give you responsibility, I have no idea."

Kirk smiles into the pillow. "The universe loves me."

"Not as much as you love yourself." The word's are grumbled from overhead.

"You love me too," Kirk drawls out. "All this attention, it's the only explanation."

"No, I'm drunk and I want to fuck you, which you know damn well, you arrogant, thoughtless little tease."

"So do it." Kirk laughs. "When have you ever known me to say no?"

"That's a word you seem to have trouble with, strange thing, for only being two letters. Your impulse control is practically non-existent."

The glass on his shoulder moves, liquid splashing down his back, and McCoy makes a low, distracted noise like he's watching the trail. It's confirmed when a thumb drags the wetness lower, trails it over the curve of his ass.

"Is that your considered medical opinion?" Kirk asks.

"The fact that you have an incurable case of mounting everything within range? Damn straight, that's my considered medical opinion."

"And yet, you seem to be the one in charge at the minute."

McCoy doesn't say anything, but the glass lifts away from his shoulder, hits some other hard surface with a thud - and then a clatter, suggesting a lack of stability. The sounds barely finished before McCoy's weight shifts, and there's pressure against the inside of his thighs. One of Kirk's knees ends up off the narrow bed, thumping into the wall. The dull edge of pain runs all the way up his leg.

It's blanked out, instantly when strong, slick fingers open him up.

"Don't even pretend anyone else is ever in charge," McCoy says roughly. "Because we always seem to end up doing exactly what you want."

That's a claim he's going to at least _attempt_ to refute, but all he manages is a shiver when three fingers slide out of him, and are replaced, almost too fast, by the solid burn of penetration, and the bright sting of fingers dug into the skin of his waist. McCoy doesn't stop until he's all the way inside him.

Kirk has enough breath to laugh, or groan, but not both. He's not sure which one wins.

Fingers bite into the back of his neck, hard enough to bruise, catching tighter on the first slow push, tighter still on every one that comes after. Until every thrust jolts him forward, body strung tight and hot. Dirty little gasps falling out of him. He shoves the pillow out of the way and curses into the sheet, curves in a way that makes it easier and rougher at the same time.

McCoy always makes him feel like he's being punished for something. Which is fair, since he always feels a little bit like he deserves it. He's going to have glaringly obvious bruises tomorrow.

"I should keep you like this all night, you might learn something."

"That must be what I want too," Kirk says breathlessly, and there are more swearwords and a hard roll of hips. When he reaches for himself anyway his hand is smacked out of the way.

"When I say and not before." McCoy's voice shakes more than a little.

"Sir, yes, sir," Kirk manages.

"You're going to be the death of me," McCoy says through his teeth. "The _death_ of me."

Kirk twists his fingers in the sheet and pushes back. "But it will be _awesome_."

  



End file.
